


Defeat

by temporalgambit



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: Gladio is more perceptive than Ignis sometimes gives him credit for.





	Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> “I will consume any gladnis content you create like THAT. Especially a feverish Igni half heartedly attempting to push away gladio’s hand on his forehead but he can’t bc he has a papa bear hand and it’s warm and he just kinda falls asleep against it standing up-”

The room is almost unbearably hot—Ignis is aware of the drenched cotton sheets beneath himself, the feeling of his pajamas clinging damply to every inch of covered skin, the oppressive weight of the blanket—and he needs to get _out_.

It’s with minimal grace that he clambers out of bed, leaving Gladio to hog the covers, and he spares one glance over the lightly snoring forms of Noctis and Prompto before tiptoeing out the door.

He’s smothering a sneeze and a long series of dry coughs as soon as the latch clicks shut, but—though the fit leaves him wheezing and dizzy—he feels a million times better for being out of the room. The cool air is a blessing against his overheated skin. He steps to the railing of the small balcony, staring out across the parking lot and into the field beyond.

At least it’s a clear night. The weather forecast looks promising for the next few days, so with any luck he’ll be able to kick this cold (if he can still call it that) without any of the others falling victim.

So far, it’s been four days of coughing and sneezing. Four days of headaches and backaches and every other kind of ache Eos has to offer. Four days _without_ a fever—which is what makes tonight’s escalation so very, very unwelcome. Ignis isn’t exactly illness-prone (he can usually count on his younger companions to catch every sniffle and sore throat that comes their way), so he doesn’t have a good point of comparison, but he has a feeling this is only going to get worse before it gets better.

Damn it all.

“Can’t sleep?” the sudden question makes him jump a mile high—he hadn’t even heard the door open—and he hears Gladio chuckle over the shreds of his lost composure.

Smoothing out his features the best he can, Ignis turns. “I apologize if I woke you,” all that’s left of his voice is a sad little rasp, and he can see Gladio frowning in the low light.

“S’not your fault,” Gladio joins him at the railing, “is your cold keeping you up?”

Ignis stiffens, pausing for a moment too long to consider his answer. “That…may be the case,” he half-admits, leaving out the part about the probable fever and general overall suffering. Complaining won’t ease matters, and there’s really no need to unduly worry Gladio over what will, in time, sort itself out.

Except for some reason, Gladio isn’t buying it. Instead, he’s staring at Ignis with a look the advisor can’t quite place. “Iggy, are you…?” his expression folds in suspicion, and Ignis has no time to react before a large hand is quickly pressed to his forehead. He makes a noise that is wholly undignified, raising an arm to swat away the intrusion—but it’s all for naught. Gladio already has all the information he needs.

“That’s one hell of a fever,” he sounds unsurprised, like he was expecting this.

Ignis nods miserably, accepting defeat. There’s no playing it off now—not with Gladio’s years of caring for a younger sibling on the table. And, besides the fact, his hand is invitingly _warm_ , so very unlike the unwanted heat of the motel room. It feels _good_ —gentle and soothing to the awful, throbbing pressure in his sinuses. He allows his eyes to slip shut despite himself, selfishly relishing every precious moment Gladio lets him have.

And then, just like that, he’s being shaken back into reality.

“—gy? Ignis. _Hello?_ ”

He jolts, flails, and collapses forward into something firm and unyielding. The noise of surprise reveals this thing to be Gladio, who quickly extends his arms to keep Ignis from sliding to the ground. Ignis wants to thank him, but he’s suddenly so exhausted that he can’t find the words.

Gladio, however, is undeterred. “’Just a cold,’ my ass—you’re sleeping on your feet. How do you _really_ feel?”

“Not very well,” the confession is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he’s not quite able to bite back a groan as a shudder wracks his aching body. This sudden bout of chills, he quickly decides, is perhaps even less preferable than the heat.

“Iggy…” Gladio sounds annoyed, but he rubs his hands up and down Ignis’s arms all the same, “let’s get you back into bed.”

“If you insist,” Ignis mumbles into Gladio’s chest, unmoving.

“Sometime tonight.”

“Alright,” he remains still.

He feels, rather than hears, Gladio sigh. Then, without warning, his legs are swept from beneath him. He gasps, choking on the sharp inhalation, mentally cursing the fit of coughing this brings on. He hears Gladio apologizing as he’s shifted to rest more comfortably against his chest. By the time it ends, he’s more tired than he can ever recall being (though he’s certain there _have_ been other times) and Gladio seems thoroughly abashed for having startled him.

There’s a beat of silence between them, then, “With your permission, bed sounds absolutely heavenly right about now.”

Gladio snorts, and Ignis knows without looking that he’s rolling his eyes. He’s jostled slightly as the door swings inward—the previously stifling heat, now a welcome embrace around his shuddering form. Gladio eases him down onto the bed, taking care to tuck the covers around him before sliding in himself. His hand finds Ignis’s under the blanket and squeezes.

This is going to complicate things, Ignis knows. They’re already on a tight schedule—a whole host of side requests from folks met along their journey had ensured that. They have to restock tomorrow, probably pick up a hunting job or two to make ends meet, and that’s all _before_ they travel back towards Lestallum. There’s not a whole lot of wiggle room for sitting around feeling terrible, no matter how badly Ignis would love a day (or six) to sleep this off.

But for now, with Gladio’s fingers intertwined in his, this is okay.

They’ll sort out the rest in the morning.


End file.
